


lickety split

by inlightofvisa



Category: New Girl
Genre: Crack, Gen, I honestly can't believe I did this, IT'S THE INTERNET'S FAULT, THIS CRACK IS SO CRACKY YOU COULD SMOKE IT WITH A PIPE, actually mostly real life's fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-29
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-10 23:34:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlightofvisa/pseuds/inlightofvisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick is truly the only sane one in the loft. Oh, and Schmidt needs another jar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lickety split

**Author's Note:**

> So basically, Hannah Simone (the actress who plays Cece) tweeted something about the Olympic gymnastics floor routine. My brain went haywire and this strange bastard child was born. You're welcome.
> 
> I don't own New Girl, and I certainly have zero idea of how floor routines work.
> 
> https://twitter.com/HannahSimone/status/229465613460963328 (The tweet that Hannah Simone wrote that spawned this strange, strange non-reality.)

Nick shoves open the loft door before stumbling to a stop. Blue mats cover the entire living room floor where Cece and Jess are doing some _awful_ attempts at full-body flips and somersaults and Schmidt is just staring at them hungrily from the couch, all the while continuously putting money in the Douchebag Jar. Winston instructs him on how much to pay. The television is tuned to NBC, which is showing the Olympics.

“Uh,” Nick says, and Jess looks up at him, her head upside down as she raises herself into an inordinately rickety bridge.

“Welcome home!” she says, her usual chipper self. The bridge dies a terrible structural death that makes all engineers everywhere cry.

“Uh,” Nick says again, turning this time to Winston. He can always count on Winston to be the saner one in the loft (the whole scene professing to be his secret gay lover notwithstanding).

“Olympic gymnastics are on,” he says, as if that explains anything. “Twenty.”

Schmidt takes a twenty out of a wad of bills he has in his hands and crams it into the already overstuffed jar.

“That doesn’t explain _anything_ ,” Nick says, throwing his hands up. “Can _anyone_ explain to me what the _hell_ is going on here?”

Cece looks at him squarely and points at the screen.

“Their floor routine,” she says, huffing. “Is impossible.”

“Of course it’s impossible, you’re _not a gymnast_!” Nick shouts.

“Cece can do pretty much anything,” Jess says, doing a clumsy somersault and landing on her back with an ‘oof.’ “Just give her some lingerie, some baby oil, and plop her down in front of some cameras and she’s gold.”

Schmidt just groans indecently from the couch.

“One hundred,” Winston says, squeezing his eyes closed. Schmidt’s hand chokes the jar with the bill. That poor, poor jar.

“How long have they been at this?” Nick asks, incredulous.

“Well, Schmidt’s down almost a full thousand, so… almost an hour,” Winston says, fiddling with his earring stud. “Ten.”

Schmidt slaps the bill onto the table.

“Besides the broken penis incident, this is one of the least fun games we’ve ever played, Winston,” he says, rubbing his wrist. “I’m going to need another jar.”

"Then stop watching," Winston says, opening his eyes again. Schmidt gapes at him.

"How could you not?"

"Fifty."

Nick groans and walks to the kitchen to find another mason jar.

“How long is this going to be happening?” he asks as he fumbles through the cabinets. “Caroline is coming over later.”

“After the next couple of days? Not for another four years,” Winston replies. “Ten.”


End file.
